


The Hurt We've Earned

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Hair-pulling, I can finally add the Jean Valjean and j/jvj tags, M/M, Prostitution, but if you're just joining us now be aware that neither of those happen before chapter five, javert is self-destructive, violence though i don't suppose it's that graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a kink meme prompt. Whenever Javert feels like he's failed in his duty (which is often), he seeks out dangerous and violent men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh hey i changed the title

The first time it happened, Javert had no idea it would become a habit.

It had begun at Toulon, when Javert had arrived a fresh-faced and young guard. Even then, he had held himself to an almost unreachable standard at work. The job of a prison guard was not an easy one, especially when the prison was understaffed. In addition, the convicts knew that, while menacing and unforgiving, Javert was inexperienced and had not yet acquired the physical strength necessary for the job.

Javert had only been at Toulon several months when a prisoner under his watch managed to escape. During the three agonizingly long days before the prisoner's recapture, Javert had barely slept. He lay awake at night, fuming; he had scarcely felt so angry in his life. _An honest man should be happy at the opportunity to repent for his crimes, even at a place like this_ , he reasoned. _To try to avoid repentance is a mockery of the law._ When the convict was brought back to Toulon, Javert had been given the opportunity to punish him.

He was not unnecessarily cruel, but he made every blow with the cudgel count. He was still infuriated, exasperated that this man had escaped from right under his nose. But that night, when Javert returned to his quarters, he found he was still unable to sleep, still unable to relax. Two more nights of very little sleep passed by before Javert realized that perhaps the convict was not the one he was truly angry with.

His thoughts turned from anger toward that man to anger toward himself. How could he have let him escape? What if he had not been recaptured? Javert had failed in his duty. It had already been a week since the incident; Javert knew his superiors would think him mad were he to demand his dismissal or any formal reprimands. Surely, if discipline for his failure were to happen, it would have happened already.

Another week passed. Javert was, if anything, only more self-loathing.

It was at the end of this week when Javert's attention was brought to an incident with one of the prisoners. A particularly brutish convict, a murderer, had been in solitary confinement when one of the guards went to give him his daily meal -- black bread, beans, and a too-small amount of water -- and returned bloodied and bruised. The guard refused to speak of what happened, but Javert heard the man had earned another month in solitary. 

When it came time to feed that prisoner, 36574, the next evening, the guards were understandably apprehensive. Javert sighed deeply and wordlessly stood up, accepting the challenge.

Perhaps he had done it to punish himself. Years later, Javert would still struggle to describe his motivation. 

He grabbed the tray of food and made his way to 36574's cell. He did not realize he had forgotten his truncheon ( _or had I left it behind intentionally?_ , he would later think, bitterly) so that when he stepped into the prisoner's cell, a little farther away from the door than he needed to, he was nearly defenseless against the ruthless brute.

"Your stunt has earned you another month in solitary," Javert snarled, glaring at the man sitting against the wall facing the door. He tried to retain his formidable appearance and seem calm and in control, but part of him was more on edge than ever, afraid of what the man might do to him if he let his guard down.

_But had it really been fear? Or was it anticipation?_

Javert set the tray down gently and the man grunted, remaining seated. Only when Javert had turned toward the door did 36574 spring to his feet, bringing his chained arms around Javert's head so the cool metal of the chains tightened around Javert's throat, making him all but unable to breathe.

"If you think what happened to your friend was bad," 36574 started, "just wait until,"

Javert jerked his head backward as hard as he could, headbutting the man behind him, and elbowed him in the gut. The shock was enough to allow Javert to duck under the handcuffs, and Javert took a quick sigh of relief as his breathing returned to normal. But the prisoner was faster still, and used both of his hands to hit the side of Javert's head, hard, causing him to fall to the floor. 

Before he could even scramble to his feet or wipe from his face the blood pouring from his nose, the prisoner began kicking at him ruthlessly. Javert flinched away from the kicks while trying to protect his face and neck, desperately searching for a way out. 36574 continued to kick until Javert found himself huddled up in the corner of the cell farthest from the door.

The violence had done something to Javert. A heat rushed through his body and he felt his cock twitch even as he whimpered, curled up on the ground. He had never been assaulted by a convict before, at least not since becoming a guard. Part of him cursed his further ineptitude, and another part wondered if he had been intentionally pulling his punches. It was a few seconds before he realized the kicks had ceased; a few seconds passed before he was able to summon the courage to look up.

As he did, 36574 used his cuffed hands to grab Javert roughly by his ponytail and pull him up to his knees. Too weak to protest, Javert let his body be dragged up, until he sat on his heels only inches from the wall behind him.

36574 thrust his fists to the wall with Javert's neck between them; the back of Javert's head hit the wall and the chain between the prisoner's wrists once again restricted his breathing. The prisoner moved forward, keeping his hands against the wall while Javert struggled to breathe, pulling desperately and futilely at the chain, until Javert's face was only inches from the man's crotch.

"I have given this shit-hole my entire life," he spat, looking down at Javert's tear- and blood-streaked face. Javert was gasping desperately for air, the first signs of lightheadedness manifesting as the room drifted in and out of focus. "No matter what I do to you, I am here until I die. What should I care if I pass that time alone? What should I care if I kill a guard or two in the process?"

Just as Javert thought he might pass out, the chain was removed from his neck. Javert closed his eyes, taking deep breaths as he felt the oxygen return to his brain. Only seconds later, he felt the chain return. This time, he did not press Javert's head against the wall, but crossed his wrists behind Javert's head. The chain was present and uncomfortable, though not tight enough to restrict Javert's breathing. He used this to pull Javert up until he was no longer sitting on his heels, but sitting erect on his knees. Javert opened his eyes to see 36574 had shoved down his trousers enough to free his cock, which now hung, half-erect, just inches from Javert's face.

The prisoner used one of the hands he had wrapped behind Javert's neck to tug violently at his ponytail. "If you want to get out of this alive," he whispered, low and dangerous, "you'll suck my cock, and if I feel even a little bit of teeth, I will not hesitate to strangle you." He tightened his wrists for a few seconds, cutting off Javert's air, as if to prove to him he could make good on the threat. Javert could feel his own cock straining in his trousers as he opened his mouth and leaned forward, taking the man's prick in his mouth.

The position was awkward; the convict kept the chain around Javert's neck, causing Javert to have to lean precariously forward, past the convict's forearms, to take his cock in his mouth.

Javert sucked at it inexpertly, moving his mouth and tongue around the head, but his lack of experience did not seem to bother the prisoner -- Javert felt the chain loosen around his neck, and heard a sigh from above him. He continued to suck at the head, slowly, as he felt the man's cock harden in his mouth.

"More," the man grunted. "Put your mouth -- put it on more."

Javert slid his mouth along a bit father, trying to wet his lips as much as possible. His cock was heavy on his tongue, the scent overpowering in his nose. He kept his hands at his sides, fists bunched up in his trousers, trying to fight the urge to touch his own straining prick.

"More," he grunted again, and the fist in his ponytail returned. 36574 trust deep into his mouth, using Javert's hair to hold him in place. 

Javert sputtered, his throat spasming as he choked on the man's length. The rhythm was quick and brutal, and Javert finally succumbed to his own desire, pressing the heel of his palm against his cock and praying it went unnoticed. 36574 pulled at Javert's hair increasingly hard as his cock forced its way down Javert's throat; the chain began to tighten as well, restricting Javert's breathing.

The lightheadedness returned and Javert coughed as he desperately sought air; the hand on his own cock pushed hard over the fabric of his trousers while his throat was filled with that of the convict. Just as he again thought he might pass out, the convict loosened his grip on Javert's hair and pulled out of his mouth, groaning, just in time to spend over Javert's nose, mouth and cheeks. Javert gasped as he felt the blood rush back to his brain and gripped his own prick through his trousers, and came with a whimper.

Both men were then silent and unmoving, both gasping for air. When Javert raised a sleeve to wipe his face of the blood, tears and cum that covered it, 36574 once again hit him hard across the side of his head, and Javert fell again to the ground, slamming against the hard floor. The convict, finally, moved away, sitting down near the food Javert had forgotten he'd brought.

Javert stood up, shaking. He glared at the man, who had begun sipping his water, almost nonchalantly, and then turned from him toward the cell door, still wiping desperately at his face. He left without saying a word.

He returned to his quarters that night filled with an agonizing pain and overwhelming shame. He was barely out of his uniform before he collapsed on his bed. He slept soundly through the night for the first time in weeks.

When he awoke the next morning, he was almost too sore from the brawl to even get out of bed, but he noted the distinct absence of the self-loathing that had plagued him before. He had failed in his duty when that other prisoner, the one whose number Javert had now forgotten, had escaped; he had been punished for his failure now, too, by another prisoner who may not have even known about the incident.

Javert pushed the thought from his head. It mattered little. He had failed, and he had been punished. That was all that mattered.

He returned to work that day with a new sense of dedication, having overcome the incident from two weeks prior.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no outright porn this time sorry i had to have the plot happen at some point
> 
> also I suppose my characterization is based more on my interpretation of brick!Javert than on film! or musical!javert, i hope that's alright. as was obvious in the first chapter he still has his ponytail because i'm a sucker for long-haired javert and i don't know why more people aren't?

It was not a one-off incident.

Whenever Javert felt he had failed his duty in an exceedingly unforgivable way, he would eventually wind up putting himself in compromising positions with dangerous convicts. He would put up a fight, getting a rush from the action, but eventually end up letting the men overpower him.

Sometimes, the convicts Javert sought out did not attempt to fight him. Usually if this happened, Javert would snarl something particularly hurtful, hoping they would take the bait. Occasionally they would, but sometimes they did not. If he did not, it was no matter -- Javert knew Toulon had no shortage of violent men.

It did not always end sexually. Sometimes the men would just beat Javert until he was near-unconscious, or until Javert realized his life might actually be at stake and survival instincts kicked in, at which point he was generally able to either turn the fight in his favour, or at least escape from the convict. It did not matter. He would never admit to preferring when it did end with sexual violence; never admit that, whenever he opened the door to a solitary confinement cell, he hoped the prisoner would bloody him up before forcing his cock roughly into Javert's mouth or ass.

On the occasions when it didn't end sexually, Javert would return to his room in agonizing pain, taking his cock in hand and bringing himself off, usually before even discarding his blood-soaked uniform.

There were times he tried not to punish himself in such a way. He knew what he was doing was disgusting, immoral, shameful; he knew he should not want those men to use him in that way. Yet every time some failing of his (which got to be relatively small things, even so much as a fight breaking out between two convicts on his watch) plagued him, he would return. It was the only way he could forgive himself.

The brutality of the men he sought out was related to the severity of his transgression, as well. After another convict escaped under his watch, a convict that, two weeks later, had still not been recaptured, he visited a particularly violent convict. He had barely slept since the man escaped and was scarcely even able to eat. When he finally caved and put himself again in the path of danger, the man injured him to the point he spent three days unconscious in the infirmary. He had never had a more powerful orgasm than the one in that cell.

Otherwise, Javert was a model prison guard. The fights had strengthened him, and when he wasn't knee-deep in self-hatred, he was a cold but effective guard. He was someone to be feared, even by the more dangerous convicts. If any of the men he visited dared mention the incident to any others, they would most likely not believe them anyway. As such, Javert's reputation remained unsullied. 

And so it went, for years and years. His superiors thought him brave, though foolish, and he was commended for his duty. In their eyes, despite his occasional reckless behaviour, he was still one of the most effective guards at Toulon. Javert could not recall a time he lost a fight with a convict he hadn't intended to. He was even more brutal and vicious than the other guards and a person to be feared, excluding his rare lapses of weakness.

When he finally left Toulon, he hoped it would be over. There was a need for police inspectors in Paris, and Javert jumped at the opportunity to leave behind the prison and the sin it carried with it. He would move to the other side of the country, move to Paris, and shed his identity as Guard Javert. He would shed his need for punishment, he would shed his vice.

He was happy for the new job in Paris. The pay was poor, and Javert barely managed to scrape by, but the city was a great deal nicer than the prison had been. Javert enjoyed Paris, and the size of the city meant there was never a shortage of work for him.

He was a good inspector, and the Prefect was happy to have him. Like he had been as a guard, he was efficient and effective, with an imposing enough presence to deter even the worst would-be offenders.

Javert began especially keeping an eye on the brothels in Paris, on top of his normal patrol schedule. While technically legal, many were constantly breaking certain regulations. He took the city's obsession with vice and depravity as a personal blow to his own Spartan lifestyle. He had expected to find better men in the city than he had in Toulon, but found that, even if they were not breaking any laws ( _though many of them were_ , he thought bitterly), the people of Paris were scum not much better than the convicts. 

He pushed thoughts of his own sin from his mind.

His first winter in Paris was a particularly cold one. Toulon had not prepared him for the harsh Paris winters, and his pitifully low pay could not afford him a thicker greatcoat, or even, at times, wood for his stove. Struggling to make ends meet, he often skipped meals, and found his endurance at work begin to slide.

One night in early January, just less than a year since he had arrived, he had been on patrol when a brawl had broken out at an inn. By the time he had shown up, one of the patrons had injured another with a broken bottle. Seeing Javert, the attacker fled the tavern. Javert gave chase, but the man was much younger and, though probably drunk, had much more endurance. Javert chased him through the city streets until his legs ached and his lungs burned, cursing loudly after he realized his man had escaped. When he stormed, fuming, back to the inn, he found out the man he had attacked had died.

When Javert returned to his lodgings that night, he paced the length of his small room, his hands tangled in his hair. A man dead, a murderer on the run. Just as he had in Toulon, Javert tossed and turned through what remained of the night, and most of the morning, until it was time to return to work.

He began putting in 12 and 16 hour shifts; he was determined to find his murderer, but after three weeks he did not have a single lead. If he had not been skipping meals already due to his low pay, he would have begun skipping them just to spend more time working. Even if he tried to sleep, he was unable to, and he ventured that if he was going to be awake, he may as well be at work. _What right do I have to relax,_ he reasoned, when it is due to my own incompetence that a murderer runs free? 

Javert's self-loathing returned even stronger than it had been in Toulon. Eventually, the case was dropped, and Javert returned to his normal hours, focusing again only on his patrols and on upholding the law even in seemingly lawless places - namely, the brothels.

He had heard whispers of a particularly bad one, one from which women were constantly disappearing, or, if they were lucky, merely sustaining severe injuries. Women were known to show up and work for only a few nights before disappearing. The men who frequented the establishment were permitted to do almost anything they wanted to the women who worked there - for a price. The price attracted the most desperate women, who would often work just long enough to feed themselves or their children. Such transience was not permitted by law.

When, a full month after the murderer had gone free, Javert was still unable to shake his guilt, his self-destructive instinct perked up again.

After changing into the closest thing he had to labourer's clothing and untying the ribbon in his hair, he made his way through Paris to the brothel he had been trying to gather information on. He elected not to take his greatcoat, lest he be recognized. A cap hung low over his face, and he clutched at his arms as the winter wind blew straight through his thin shirt and waistcoat.

He eventually reached the brothel, giving a cursory look around him in the empty ally, lit only by a string of faint red lights. He steeled himself and pushed open the door, trying to retain his composure.

" _Bienvenue_ ," a woman greeted. The neckline of her dress was indecent, and Javert willed his eyes away from her bosom. "What can I interest you in tonight?"

Javert's pulse raced. Despite his investigations, he still had no idea of the etiquette of such an establishment. He cleared this throat and said, lowly, "I am not so much looking to buy, as to," 

The woman stepped back, pushing her lips up toward her nose as she appraised Javert. She sighed. " _Merde_. I cannot promise you any work for tonight, and, as I have never seen you before, the pay will be low." 

"I understand," Javert said quietly.

"Your name?" She demanded, impatiently.

"Lucien."

"You lie."

"Yes, I do," Javert retorted coolly. 

"There may be hope for you yet," was her singular response. "You may call me Madame Laporte."

Javert nodded as Madame Laporte beckoned him deeper into the building. A shiver ran down his spine as he heard the strangled moans of women coming from elsewhere in the establishment; Javert wondered if the noises were of pain or pleasure. 

She led him into a small room with only a thin curtain for a door. It was lit sparsely with candles, and the bed took up much of the small space. "Wait here," she replied. Javert stood awkwardly by the bed as she turned away. Just before she left the room, she turned back and, with an annoyed glare, added, "and take off your waistcoat and that hat. You look absurd." She cursed again as she made her way from the room.

Javert made an indignant noise, but she had already left. He did as he was told, then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. When his nerves began to get the better of him, he repeated, _I am Javert, Inspector of the First Class,_ and _I am Javert, of the Paris Police._ Whatever was going to happen to him here, he was surely in no more danger than he had been in prison. He was not some waif, some desperate and destitute mother in need of a few francs. _If they are able to sustain this, surely I am too_ , he thought.

Madame could not have gone far; if Javert strained his ears, he could hear her voice. He was able to make out bits and pieces of conversation - "Someone who can handle a bit more" and "much cheaper than the other girls" and, finally, "he seems like he could be what you have been looking for." He heard a male voice reply, but the tone was too deep for Javert to discern the words.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, but had perhaps only been a few minutes, Madame Laporte returned, showing a tall, muscled man into the room with Javert.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1700 words of pwp.
> 
> can you tell i have a thing for javert's hair is that obvious yet
> 
> also there's some dubcon near the end of this chapter so if you aren't ok with that i wouldn't read it

Javert stood up, sizing up the man before him. He was about as tall as Javert, but where Javert was lanky, the other man was thick and muscled. Javert found himself thinking that he would not have looked out of place at Toulon, but checked the thought.  
  
“Undress,” the man commanded, curtly.  
  
Javert complied, removing what remained of his clothing. He let them pool on the floor next to him as the other man approached him. He tried to keep his head up and a look of grim determination on his face even as he felt the man’s eyes slowly raking over his bare form.   
  
“You may not be a woman, but you still look like a waifish whore,” the man barked, letting out a short laugh.   
  
Javert felt a pang. He had lost weight; he had been skipping meals to stretch his meagre salary.  
  
“On your knees,” the stranger ordered, but before Javert could obey, the man pressed down firmly on his shoulder until Javert’s legs buckled, and his knees hit the floor below with a thud.  
  
That will bruise in the morning, Javert thought as he felt his cock stir.  
  
The stranger grabbed Javert’s jaw in his hand, squeezing tightly as he tilted Javert’s face up towards his own. “Well? Get on with it.”  
  
He let go of Javert’s face as Javert began to work on pulling down the man’s trousers, cursing his shaking fingers. He let them rest around his thighs, pulling them down just enough to pull out the man’s cock.  
  
He was only half hard, so Javert held the base delicately while he moved to wrap his lips around the tip. He tried to remember what had made the convicts happy, then sucked gently at the head of his cock while flitting his tongue against the very tip.  
  
Instead of the contented sighs Javert remembered hearing, however, the man only gave an annoyed grunt. He winced as he felt the stranger grab a fistful of his loose hair. He thrust into Javert while also pushing his head along his cock, until his entire length was in Javert’s mouth.  
  
Javert gagged, his throat spasming from the sudden movement. He tried to regain some control, mouthing and sucking as much as he could, put the man had not relented, continuing to both thrust into Javert’s mouth and use the fist in his hair to push Javert’s head forward.   
  
Choking violently on the man’s length, now fully hard within his throat, Javert brought his hands up to the man’s thighs. This way, at least, he might gain some stability.  
  
The man’s free hand slapped away one of Javert’s. “Do not touch me,” he grunted, roughly. He ceased his thrusting, but kept Javert’s head pressed all the way along his cock. Javert heard him mutter, “You look pathetic,” just barely audible over the sound of his own choking.  
  
Finally, he pulled Javert’s head off of his prick, releasing his hair. Javert rubbed at the aching part of his scalp while he struggled to catch his breath. His cock throbbed.  
  
“Stand up,” the man commanded. “Put your hands against the wall.”

Javert obeyed, dazed. He hung his head, his breathing having not quite returned to normal.  
  
The man approached behind him, and kicked Javert’s legs further apart. Javert was only just able to retain his balance. He felt the man’s cock, still slick with Javert’s saliva, press crudely against him.  
  
With this, at least, the man was slow. He had one hand on the wall, next to Javert’s, the other digging roughly into his hip. He pushed against Javert, slowly but forcefully. Javert bit his cheek as the head of his cock breached him. Slowly, slowly, he pressed into Javert.  
  
Javert pressed his teeth down harder on his cheek, trying to prevent himself from audibly whimpering. Despite the slow speed, Javert still felt as if he was being torn apart; he had not been given enough time to adjust to the man’s size. When he was all the way in, he pulled out, almost all the way, before thrusting in again, quicker this time.  
  
He continued to push into Javert like this, gradually speeding up. As Javert’s body accustomed to his size, pain melted into pleasure, and Javert could not contain a frustrated groan as his own cock went ignored.  
  
Hearing this, the man removed his hand from the wall and wrapped it around Javert’s length. Still thrusting into him, he leaned in next to Javert’s ear.  
  
“You enjoy this,” he whispered, darkly. “You want me to touch you?”  
  
“Yes,” Javert breathed.   
  
His hand moved along Javert’s cock, one complete movement from base to tip and back, before stopping again. Javert whimpered.  
  
“Beg me,” the man whispered.  
  
Javert flinched. His cock throbbed, but even here, with a man buried to the hilt inside him, he was unsure if he could debase himself further.  
  
Javert shook his head, and the man’s grip loosened on his cock. He let his fingers slide against Javert’s length, lightly, while still thrusting into him. His other hand tightened its already painful grip on Javert’s thigh.  
  
“Beg me,” he repeated.  
  
“Please,” Javert choked before he could stop himself. He wanted to shake his head, wanted to remain stoic, if not compliant. He wanted to just stand here and allow this man to abuse him, but he did not want to be complicit in his own debasement. His words belied the thought. “Please, yes, please touch me -”  
  
The stranger’s hand began to work faster on his cock, gripping tightly, matching his own thrusts. His speed grew more frantic, his movements rougher; Javert was unsure about how much longer he could last.  
  
“I am going to -” he started before he came with a groan, all over the man’s hand. The man continued to thrust into him, keeping his hand moving along Javert’s length.  
  
Javert’s orgasm ebbed and his cock softened, but the man’s hand did not relent. Javert’s cock ached with post-orgasm sensitivity.   
  
“You can stop,” Javert managed, wincing as the man thumbed roughly over the head of his cock.  
  
The man thrust fully into Javert and stayed there as he continued to rub at Javert’s length.  
  
Javert moved his hand down to swat away the other man’s arm, but as he had gone to do that, the other man grabbed both of his wrists in his own, pinning them atop Javert’s head. He managed to adjust them such that he could hold them there with only one hand, and moved his other hand back to Javert’s cock.  
  
“You begged me for this,” he grunted. The movement of his hand was even more rough than it had been before; it would have been painful even if Javert had been hard.   
  
“And now I am telling you to stop,” Javert responded.   
  
The man tightened his grip further on Javert, pressing the head of his cock between his thumb and forefinger. Javert let out a strangled cry.  
  
“Be silent,” he hissed. He loosened his grip somewhat, but kept his hand moving as he began to thrust into Javert again.

Any chance his cock might have had at recovery was eliminated by the constant stimulation. Where the pain and debasement had once felt pleasurable, now Javert only felt agony. His teeth returned to the bitten part of his cheek, and Javert tasted blood as he willed himself not to cry.  
  
No, he wouldn’t cry.   
  
The stranger thrust into him again, harder now.  
  
 _Isn’t this what I deserve?_  Javert found himself thinking.  _Is this not what I wanted?_  
  
His hand sped up and gripped tighter, and Javert grinded his cheek between his teeth.  
  
 _I failed. I let a criminal get away. I am a failure, and that is why I am here, is it not? As punishment for my failure?_  
  
He was pounding into Javert harder now, at a pace that would have been painful on its own.  
  
 _It would not be punishment were it pleasurable. He was right; I have begged for this. I wanted that pleasure, it is only just I feel this pain now. I did not deserve that pleasure; this is what I deserve. I deserve worse._  
  
The grip on his wrists had tightened too, and Javert could feel the tips of his fingers beginning to numb. His cock felt like it had been burned, from the base to the very tip. He felt tears well up in his eyes, then screwed up his face to force them not to fall.  
  
 _What am I? A failure as a prison guard, a sinner and a sodomite, and now a failure as a police inspector. This agony is deserved, it is just --_  
  
At long last, the man came inside of him, and his grip on Javert finally loosened. He pulled out of Javert, slowly, and Javert heard him fix his trousers. Javert stayed facing the wall, resting his forehead on his arms. He heard the man catch his breath before leaving the room wordlessly.   
  
After a moment, Javert turned around, pressing his back against the wall. He slid down the wall and sat like that, trying to catch his breath. Soon after, Madame Laporte poked her head in the door.  
  
Her eyes widened as she saw Javert, sitting, clearly in pain and dazed.   
  
“Done for the night?” She asked, offhandedly.   
  
Javert nodded.  
  
She walked over and pressed some coins into Javert’s hand. “Join us again any time,” she said, before leaving the room.  
  
Javert stood up, tossing the coins onto the bed as he dressed himself. Without counting it, he shoved it in his pocket, before making the long walk back to his room. The cold didn’t bug him, this time.  
  
He walked in a trance; he had stopped thinking about what he deserved, and just let himself feel the pain course through his body. He ached all over from the encounter, and the cold bit harshly into his skin. It didn’t bother him at all.   
  
Not until the next morning did he pull the money from his trousers and count it. His eyes widened.  
  
He returned to work on Monday with a restored sense of confidence, a warmer greatcoat, and a full belly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: likely inaccurate representations of the french police system (that i'm handwaving and not even bothering with because of victor hugo's propensity to do the same)
> 
> short chapter, my apologies.
> 
> and yeah i changed the title, fight me

Javert slid the wash basin back under the bed idly with one foot, having just finished washing himself. It had been nearly five years; though he had only visited about a dozen times, Madame Laporte was familiar enough with him to always prepare a wash basin so that he might clean up between customers.

He slid his trousers back on and buttoned his shirt, not quite all the way up. He was tired and in pain -- the man who had left only moments ago was less physical than he was used to, but still far from gentle. Javert rubbed the heel of his hand against his hip, over his trousers, feeling the tender area where the man had grabbed him. He imagined it would bruise in the morning.

He lay back on the bed, knowing he would have some time to himself. He exhaled, staring at the ceiling. Had it really been five years already?

It was getting harder to justify not reporting the place. They broke dozens of regulations for businesses of its type, and the activities themselves probably broke just as many laws. But the place remaining open allowed him to come here, and coming here allowed him to do his job better. Or rather, to keep doing his job as he had been doing it, without falling into despair.

He thought about the last five years.

The second time he visited the establishment, his wrists were tied to the bed with rope. The rope was rough and dug into his skin; his wrists burned for several days. Other than that, the man, though no less rough than Javert expected him to be, was manageable.

Other times, Javert felt things get out of control. More than once, his instinct to free himself from the situation grew too high, and it was only by some miracle of self-restraint he stayed. He remembered when this would happen in Toulon -- he could escape from these men easily, but he would not dare it here.

Once it had not been one man, but a group of men. They took their turns with Javert, each one more rough than the last. He hadn’t been through that kind of physical trauma since Toulon.

And so it went.

It wasn’t about the money. It was nice to have, it would allow him new clothing or ensure he always had plenty to eat, but he didn’t need it. He’d lived without it before, and he could do it again. Plus, it was so rare that he could scarcely get used to the extra income.

He sat up as he heard footsteps approaching. He gazed through the doorway and verified that yes, the footsteps were coming to see him. He stood up, trying to brush the wrinkles from his pants, and waited patiently.

The man entered: tall, wiry but muscular. Javert recognized him immediately.

Javert had arrested him about a year ago for aiding a group of criminals in a string of robberies throughout Paris.

Javert felt the fear course through his body as he braced himself, thinking about how he might be able to get out of the situation should it turn ugly. He gazed back at the man -- Aubert, yes, that was his name -- and attempted to determine whether he had been recognized.

Slowly, Aubert’s expression turned from appraising to shock, then quickly to anger.

“You,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

Javert took a step back, placing his hands in front of him. As if he had anywhere to go. The only exit from the room was the door, and Aubert was squarely in the way of Javert making any possible escape.

Aubert kept walking toward him as Javert backed up, until Javert’s back met the wall behind him. He glanced around as Aubert stepped very close, looking for a possible means of escape.

Before he could react, Aubert grabbed Javert’s wrists, one in each hand, and used the force to push him harder against the wall.

“I was dismissed from work because of you,” Aubert all but whispered. His eyes bore holes into Javert’s. “I lost six months of my life. Six months in Hell, because of you.”

Javert struggled in his grip, but Aubert only tightened his fists. Javert could feel his fingers beginning to numb. He was panicking; he knew this man could easily kill him, and in a place like this...

Aubert used the force on Javert’s wrists to turn him around, then pushed him harder toward the wall. His forehead hit the wall, hard, as Aubert transferred one of Javert’s wrists to his other hand, pinning them in the small of his back.

Javert continued to struggle, and Aubert just hit Javert’s head against the wall again. Javert stopped struggling.

“Let me tell you what I am going to do,” Aubert breathed against his ear. “I am going to fuck you, the way you fucked me the day you arrested me. Then,” he paused, taking a minute to push down Javert’s trousers, “I will probably kill you.”

Javert heard Aubert fumbling with his own trousers, and saw his opportunity. He hooked one of his feet around Aubert’s ankle and pushed back against his body with his own. The shock made Aubert relax his grip on Javert’s hands, and he wrenched them free.

He pulled away from Aubert, but Aubert recovered quickly. He swung at Javert, hitting him squarely in the jaw.

Javert stumbled back a few paces, and ducked quickly as Aubert swung again. His body lower to the ground, he ran at Aubert, pushing all his weight against him until Aubert fell to the floor. He kicked him once for good measure, then turned around and bolted from the room.

He did not stop running until he reached his lodgings. He lay down on his own bed, panting, and swore to never step foot in that building again.

Sleep did not find him that night. Instead he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what Aubert might do should he find Javert. He is certain that he would have, at the very least, informed Madame Laporte of his position as an Inspector with the Paris police; that alone made it dangerous to ever return.

***

“I wish to return to Toulon.”

Delavau stared at Javert, raising his eyebrows curiously. “Javert, what is this about?”

“Monsieur le Prefet,” Javert stammered, “I feel I would be of better use at the bagne than as an inspector here in Paris. I wish to return to Toulon.”

The prefect sighed. “I am sorry, Javert, but that is impossible.”

“Monsieur,” Javert began.

“No,” Delavau repeated. “Javert, you are one of the city’s finest inspectors. Not only that, but I am sending someone over to Montreuil-sur-Mer, and cannot afford to lose two inspectors in the same week.”

“I understand, Monsieur, but I,” Javert faltered. “You are transferring someone to Montreuil-sur-Mer?”

“Yes. They require a new chief inspector.”

“May I ask who Monsieur is sending?” Javert inquired.

“I have not decided, but potentially Marquette.”

“Marquette?” Javert asked. “With all due respect, Monsieur, and I know it is not my place to say, but I do not know if Marquette has the ability to,”

Delavau didn’t let him finish. “Montreuil is a small and relatively peaceful town,” he explained. “There will not be too much work for him to do, and he is certainly capable of it.”

Javert just shook his head. “Allow me to go instead.”

The prefect gave Javert a look even more puzzled than he had at Javert’s initial request.

“Javert, you are a talented Inspector, one of Paris’s best,” he said. “Your efforts would be wasted in such a place.”

“Please, Monsieur.”

Delavau sighed again. “Very well, Javert, if that is what you wish.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've muddled the timeline and minor details a bit between the novel and the 2012 movie -- when Javert arrives in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Madeleine is already mayor, but there are several months between his arrival and the incident with Fauchelevent's cart.
> 
> *handwaves chronology issues*

"Inspector Javert, Monsieur." Javert bowed politely before the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, having just arrived in the small town.

"Welcome." Madeleine gave a strained smile, and Javert tried not to think too hard about how perfunctory it looked.

"I hear Montreuil is a peaceful town," Javert told him. "I shall ensure it remains that way, Monsieur le Maire."

"Then we have a common goal," the mayor replied.

There was something Javert could not quite read in Madeleine's expression, an almost weariness that made him look older than Javert imagined he was. Something about that look made Javert uneasy; there was something familiar in the expression that he could not quite name.

Javert pushed the thought from his head.

The rest of the meeting went as well as could be expected. Montreuil-sur-Mer seemed to be just what Javert needed. It was much quieter and smaller than Paris and very prosperous due to Madeleine's factory. There was crime, there would always be crime, but it was remarkably little compared to what he had known in Paris.

"I hope you find Montreuil to your liking," Madeleine said as Javert prepared to leave the office.

"I am confident I will, Monsieur le Maire." Javert replied.

Javert had never been inclined toward optimism, but he was certain he would be able to turn things around for himself.

***

The first few months went well.

Javert was still trying to place the weariness that plagued the mayor's face when he spoke with Javert; he observed that he did not look so pained when speaking with others. Perhaps the man had something to hide, some reason to fear his Inspector. Or perhaps he saw straight through Javert, saw the depravity he tried to escape from in the small town.

Yet at the same time, something about Madeleine intrigued him. He was gentle and kind to a fault; Javert never understood why he was as giving as he was, feeling that his charity was being wasted on those who abuse it. But underneath that kindness was a kind of roughness, and his calloused hands and sun-damaged skin spoke of a life of hard work.

Even more puzzling was the fact that nobody seemed to know anything of Madeleine before he came to Montreuil-sur-Mer. When he had arrived, he had not been affluent. He had earned his wealth late in life through toil and honest work, something Javert could respect.

Madeleine was also chaste and virtuous, despite that roughness. Javert respected the man for that too, for in that he was so unlike Javert.

But Javert had not slipped, not yet. There was not much to slip on, anyway; the town was peaceful, the crime was manageable. His salary was higher than it had been in Paris. He was still far from wealthy, still had to manage his money wisely, but he had not known hunger since arriving.

Javert could get used to this.

He was pulled from his reverie by the sound of shouting in the next street over. Instinctively, he broke into a sprint toward the noise.

“Is there no one? No one to stand up and try to help?”

A cart had fallen over a man; the man looked as though it would be only moments before the weight of the cart killed him. Madeleine seemed to be attempting to bribe somebody into risking their own life to save the man’s.

Javert walked up to the mayor. “It is too dangerous,” he said quietly. “Any man who tried would be a fool. They will only get themselves killed. No man can lift that alone, and there is no time to get a jack.”

Madeleine looked, if anything, more pained than normal. He closed his eyes and exhaled, before walking wordlessly away from Javert and toward the cart.

Javert stared. Madeleine lifted the cart. Fauchelevent lived.

Madeleine gazed at Javert as he lowered the cart, panting. He looked exhausted and almost fearful.

And then Javert remembered.

The convict, that convict who was strong enough to do the work of five men. Was that what Javert had recognized? But it made sense: Madeleine had arrived after that convict had left prison, he certainly had the hands and skin of someone who knew physical labour, and he seemed constantly on edge around Javert.

What had his name been? 24601, Javert thought. Jean Valjean.

***

His resentment grew over the following months. He tried to maintain an air of professionalism and deference when speaking with Madeleine but found it increasingly difficult. He hoped he didn’t seem too cold or suspicious; he lacked decisive proof and Madeleine was still, in fact, his superior.

But it was difficult.

Regardless of whether or not this Madeleine truly was Jean Valjean, the similarities brought back memories of Toulon, and, with them, memories of his depravity. They tormented Javert day in and day out, increasing in severity when he was forced to be in the mayor’s company.

Jean Valjean. He had been a thief, a thief who repeatedly attempted escape. He had been the convict that fled under his watch that first time, the man who eluded the authorities for three days. He was the one who had started all of this.

When the incident with the whore happened, it was finally too much for Javert. By that point he was certain, absolutely convinced that Madeleine was, in fact, Jean Valjean. He burned with anger. This fake mayor, this fraud, this criminal helping another criminal, forgiving her crimes. It was the worst sort of mockery.

Javert had enough. That night, he wrote to Paris Prefecture.

Perhaps it was reckless, an act of self-destruction in and of itself; Javert was still new enough in Montreuil that his word against Madeleine’s was almost laughable, but Javert had to do something.

The letter seemed to do the trick. He slept easily and he was able to continue working. He kept his eye on the mayor for further suspicious behaviour, but found it bothered him even less than it had before.

He had nearly forgotten the incident with the whore when the response comes six weeks later.

***

“Javert, you have only done your duty.”

He shook his head. Madeleine did not understand. He needed him to understand.

“Please, Monsieur le Maire,” Javert begged. “I have wronged you. I have not only wronged you, I have failed in my duty. I would have had an innocent man - a magistrate! - investigated for being the lowest kind of scourge. I have failed you, Monsieur le Maire. Please, Monsieur, dismiss me.”

“Javert,” Madeleine urged. “Stop this.”

“I implore you, Monsieur le Maire. Punish me, dismiss me, I have failed and I,”

“Enough,” Madeleine ordered. “Enough of this, Javert. You will return to your post.”

“You are not doing me a kindness,” Javert protested. “You think you are being kind, you and your accursed forgiveness, but this is not kindness. If you had any decency, you would dismiss me, Monsieur.”

“Then it is not out of kindness,” Madeleine conceded. “We are through here, Javert.”

Javert closed his eyes momentarily in defeat and inclined his head in a polite bow before quitting the office.

He was, again, angry. Even if Madeleine had not been Jean Valjean, had not been lying to him all these months, and to these citizens for all these years -- even if he was truly a kind, generous man -- if he would not dismiss Javert, if he would not punish him, it would fall to Javert.

His stomach churned in apprehension of what he knew would come. This wasn’t just failing to apprehend a thief, nor was it as trivial as having a fight break out among convicts under his watch. No, this was much, much worse. He had denounced a magistrate without any evidence at all.

He did not even return to the police post, but went straight back to his rooms.

It was all starting up again, Javert could feel it. The pacing, the pulling at his own hair, the agonizing over everything he had done wrong that led to him sending that damned letter to the Prefecture. Soon, it would worsen. The insomnia would return, as would the lack of appetite.

Soon, it would be too much. He would have to do something himself.

And how fitting that he should slip again after mistaking a man for the very convict that started him on this path in the first place?

The rest of the day was long. He knew not what to do with himself but stay in, agonizing over the decision to mail the Prefecture, the decision to come to Montreuil-sur-Mer, the decision to leave Toulon. He was angry at the mayor and angry at Jean Valjean and angry at himself.

When the sun set after what had seemed like an impossibly long day, he retired to his bed, if only out of habit; he knew it would likely be a sleepless night.

He was almost grateful for the knock on his door.

Javert donned a dressing gown before opening the door. One of his subordinates stood almost timidly at his doorstep.

“Monsieur Javert, I am so sorry if I have woken you,” he started.

Javert only glared at him.

“It is only -- I was told you might like to know immediately,” he stammered.

“Out with it already,” Javert snapped.

“Monsieur le Maire confessed to being that convict at Arras. They are unsure of where he is.”

Javert stood there a moment, dazed.

“Monsieur Javert?”

“I will take care of this,” Javert told him, and he turned around and closed the door, a bit more forcefully than he needed, and quickly dressed himself.

***

He was infuriating.

Jean Valjean pleaded for more time, pleaded for the dead whore’s child. He asked Javert to show some mercy, when he had shown no mercy for Javert. Javert imagined him, the good mayor, the convict, laughing as Javert asked for his resignation. Surely he would have. Here he was, this man who suspected him, the only man who could throw him back into the galleys, to the life he had tried so desperately to run away from -- asking for his own resignation!

But no, the gentle mayor had refused Javert's desperate pleas. He had forgiven him.

Javert fumed.

And were that not bad enough, the convict had gotten away, escaping from under Javert's nose once again. It was worse than wrongly accusing the mayor, to know he had been deceived by this convict, this false mayor.

It was over.

Javert was through.

***

In the morning, he received a second message, this time from Paris. The Prefect, Delavau, the man who had originally allowed Javert to come to Montreuil-sur-Mer, had heard of the events in Montreuil. He assumed Javert might like to return to Paris in light of everything that had happened.

Javert accepted.

This did not lessen his self-loathing, however; if anything, it only intensified it. How could he even begin to count his failures? First, he had failed to gather sufficient evidence to prove that Madeleine was in fact Jean Valjean. Then he had believed the Prefect and this false mayor when he was told that he was not Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean, in fact, was able to do the thing Javert had so desperately failed at -- ensuring his own return to the galleys.

But he had not. Once again, he had slipped out from between Javert's fingers.

Just another failure to add to the list.

Javert had not slept in three days.

***

He knew he could not return to the brothels after the events of less than a year prior; he knew he could not continue working without finding an outlet for his self-loathing. He paced his rooms in desperation, struggling to find some way he might rid himself of his guilt and self-hatred.

Four days after the incident in the hospital, Javert did not return home immediately after his patrol had ended. Instead, he found himself in one of Paris's shadier inns.

"Can I help you, Monsieur?" The innkeeper asked.

"Wine," Javert ordered bitterly. He fell into one of the chairs, resting his head in his hands.

The innkeeper brought it to him and Javert drank thoroughly.

Javert had never cared much for alcohol; he could scarcely remember the last time he had even a drop of wine. But Javert was desperate, and he hoped that the alcohol might rid him of his thoughts of Madeleine, of Jean Valjean. He drained the first glass and asked for a second.

The bar was busy around him; men busied about, most of them inordinately drunk, many of them arguing with others. The gutter, Javert thought darkly. And here he was returning to it, like a dog to its vomit --

He drank down the thought with a third glass of wine.

Javert lost track of the glasses after that. Half dazed, he slammed his empty cup down on the table. "Innkeeper!"

The innkeeper rushed over. "Monsieur," he replied with an air of concern. "I think you have had enough for one night."

Javert continued to bang the glass on the table.

"No," the innkeeper repeated firmly. "I do not need men drinking themselves to death in my inn."

Javert looked around; the room had quieted significantly, and several of the other patrons were eying him curiously. Javert glowered at them.

“Leave me be,” he slurred. He rose to his feet unsteadily. “I do not need -- I need more wine. More wine.”

One of the patrons stepped forward and grabbed his arm gently, keeping him upright.

Javert swung at him.

It was the last thing he remembered from the inn.

***

Javert awoke the next morning in his own bed and immediately let out a groan. His entire body was wracked with pain and his head throbbed. He realized he had fallen asleep fully dressed; he had not even bothered to take off his boots before collapsing on his bed.

He wondered how he had made it home from the inn.

He moved his arm and instantly hissed in pain. His entire shoulder ached, and it seemed most of it had been bruised. His jaw was not much better; presumably the man he had punched, or perhaps another patron, had struck him back. Unsurprising. He let his hand continue down his body, and found himself, thankfully, otherwise unharmed.

His hand froze when he found the top of his trousers. They had been opened, and Javert’s fingers felt the distinctive stickiness of come.

Perhaps they had taken him, Javert began to think. But no, no, surely they had not; Javert felt around his hips and along his backside and felt none of the pain he should have expected to.

Perhaps they had taken his mouth?

But no, not that either; the injury on his jaw suggested a punch, not the grip of someone forcing themselves on Javert.

The only explanation remaining, then, was that Javert had managed to stumble home from the inn and immediately took himself in his own hand. He was not sure if this was better or worse; at least if it had been forced upon him, he would not be such a base and depraved individual who would return home from a brawl such as that and --

Javert let out a deep sigh. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands firmly at his skull, as if that might soothe the unbearable ache. It did not.

It was his day off.

He fell back asleep.

When he awoke again, he realized he had not thought of Jean Valjean since the fight at the inn; the pain clouded his thoughts too thoroughly to dwell on him. If Javert felt his thoughts slipping, he need only grip his jaw, squeezing at the already tender bruise. The pain would shoot through his body, making him unable to think of anything else. His cock would twitch.

Well, it was something.

***

Javert went nine years without feeling his head ache the way it had that morning.

He shifted on his knees, feeling the noose against his neck. Those insurgents must have restrained him while he was unconscious. This headache, however, was not enough to keep his thoughts from Jean Valjean. This is how he had felt the morning after that night, that night when it required countless bottles of wine and a fight to make Javert forget him.

It is how he had felt after the first time he let himself be taken by a convict in Toulon, after Valjean had eluded recapture for three days.

But at least he is not the cause now. Javert could not be certain it was Valjean he had seen at the Gorbeau Tenement; could not be certain the man was even still alive, let alone in Paris. Surely, even if he were, he would not not be so careless as to join the rebels at the barricades.

Surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ * ~ d R a M a T i C i R o N y ~ * ~
> 
> "Like a dog to vomit" is taken from Proverbs 26:11. It is probably the only time you will see me quote a Bible passage.


	6. Chapter 6

Javert’s wrists were bound as Valjean hauled him to his feet by the shoulder of his shirt, but he clenched his fists all the same.

Of course it should be like this. First at Toulon, then at Montreuil-sur-Mer, and now here. Valjean would, completely literally, be the death of him.

Valjean pushed him into the alley, none-too-gently; Javert kept moving, taking a few steps just to regain his balance. He turned toward Valjean, who had stuck the pistol given to him by one of the students in his waistband and instead pulled out a knife.

“Well,” Javert started impatiently, “get on with it then.”

Valjean paused for a moment to look around them, ensuring they were alone. “I’m not going to kill you, Javert,” he said slowly. His hands belied the words; he was still holding up the knife.

“Just do it quickly,” Javert snapped. “Or will you take your time, letting me bleed to death slowly? Yes, that might be more fitting of a man like you. Will you kill me right away, or will you start by-”

“Be quiet,” Valjean commanded, and his voice had more venom in it than Javert had thought Valjean capable of. That, if nothing else, stunned Javert into silence. “Be quiet, you fool. Do you wish to die?”

“I am bound and unarmed and you are not. What I wish matters little,” Javert replied dryly.

“You are impossible,” Valjean admonished, and it would have almost been endearing were Valjean not so visibly frustrated. Javert didn’t care. Valjean had been a torment for most of his life. Though he hadn’t given into his self-destructive impulses in nearly a decade, he still remembered every encounter vividly. At times, it was still a struggle to resist. What should he care if he spent his last moments on earth causing trouble for the man responsible?

Valjean took a few steps toward Javert, and Javert inhaled sharply, bracing himself. But, perhaps for the first time in his life, Valjean was true to his word; he did not cut Javert, but severed the ropes the schoolboys had bound him with.

“Now leave this place before someone finds you,” Valjean ordered.

Javert stared at him, then eyed the pistol still in Valjean’s waistband. “So you can shoot me in the back while I walk away? Yes, one last chuckle for Jean Valjean, as the gullible inspector truly believes himself to be set free!”

“I am not going to kill you,” Valjean repeated emphatically. He stepped back a few paces from Javert, giving Javert ample opportunity to make an escape should he desire one.

“You should,” Javert said quietly.

“I should?”

“If you think this will protect you from the law you are mistaken,” Javert told him. “If you had any decency you would kill me here. You would let me suffer an honourable death, but no! Jean Valjean would not dirty his hands with the blood of that silly inspector he manipulated back in Montreuil-sur-Mer, with the prison guard whose life he ruined back in Toulon-”

“Ruined?” Valjean repeated.

Javert shook his head. “It is irrelevant. Kill me. You should kill me. You have been a plague ever since you entered my life back at Toulon. It’s fitting I should die here like this, at your hands. At least I will die a hero, no? I do not need mercy from Jean Valjean. I won’t let my life be saved by Jean Valjean.”

Valjean merely stared at him.

“If you don’t kill me, I’m not going to protect you from the law,” Javert continued. “I’m warning you. If you let me go here tonight, I will find you.”

“Then do so, Javert,” Valjean sighed. “I’m Monsieur Fauchelevent, at No. 7, Rue de l’Homme Armé. If you try to arrest me, I will not resist.”

Javert had clenched his fists again without realizing. How dare he try to play moral superior to Javert?

Valjean reached for the gun in his waistband and Javert flinched despite himself. Valjean, however, simply pointed it toward the sky and fired a single shot.

“Get out of here before someone comes looking for you,” Valjean urged him.

Javert took one last look at Valjean before turning away from the barricade.

****

***

****

Javert was waiting for him when Valjean emerged from the sewer.

Once again, the man begged for more time.

“The boy is dead,” Javert told him flatly. “You are wasting your time. Even if he is not dead, surely your swim through the sewer will make him ill, and he will die then.”

“So let me waste my time,” Valjean pleaded.

Javert’s hand closed around his pistol, but he didn’t quite draw it from its position at his side.

“Javert,” Valjean warned.

“If you had killed me at the barricade, you would have been able to take this boy home, or wherever it is you believe there to be some unknown cure that can treat bullet wounds and fevers,” Javert told him. “Do you regret it now?”

Valjean moved to step past him. “Please, Javert, there isn’t time-”

“There is time,” Javert corrected, and he raised his pistol. How nice it felt to have some control over this man! Having to spend a few more moments filthy from the sewer was hardly comparable to the hell he had put Javert through. Yes, Javert could keep him a little longer. “If you could go back, would you have killed me? To ensure this boy gets -- wherever it is you intend to take him?”

“I still would not have killed you.”

“Why not?” Javert demanded.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Valjean explained.

Javert laughed bitterly. “You have no idea what I’ve done.”

Valjean seemed not to have heard him. “Will you allow me to take this man to his family? He needs a doctor, and urgently. Have mercy, Javert.”

“Mercy!” Javert yelled. “Is that what you think you deserve?”

“Javert-”

“Very well then,” Javert said, his voice exasperated. He lowered his pistol. “Take the boy to his father. Let him die there. It matters little.”

“You are doing a very kind thing,” Valjean started.

“Before I change my mind,” Javert snapped.

Valjean didn’t need to be told twice.

****

***

****

Javert really had intended to meet Valjean at the address he had given him, but that was before he began thinking.

Valjean had ruined his life. He had put Javert in danger, time and time again, ever since that first escape attempt. He had humiliated him in Montreuil-sur-Mer and denied him a heroic and respectable death at the barricade. He had the audacity to beg for mercy one last time at the sewers, and Javert had let him go through with it.

He couldn’t arrest the man, not after he saved his life; he couldn’t let the man who ruined his life -- and also broke parole, robbed a child and committed fraud -- go free. Javert was livid. Valjean was an anomaly.

Had he really changed?

Even if he had really changed, does that mean he should no longer be held accountable for his crimes?

Javert let his feet carry them where they would and found himself at Pont-au-Change. Javert remarked on the fact the bridge was squarely between Notre Dame and the Palais de Justice and would have laughed bitterly had he not still been too lost in contemplation.

No, he would not arrest Valjean.

But how could he return to the police and even pretend to be a respectable officer of the law while knowingly letting a criminal go free?

Javert rested his elbows on the parapet and cradled his head in his hands.

He felt his self-destructive impulse well up within him again, this time harsher than before. Javert had failed; he had failed both to uphold the letter of the law, and he had failed to do what might be considered the right thing by whatever higher power Javert was uncertain even existed. Before Valjean, he would not have even considered taking any higher morality into the picture. God did not have authority over the law.

But was it really just for a man who did so much good in the world to be sent to his death? Valjean was no longer a young man; he surely would not survive another year at the bagne.

He hadn’t just let a criminal go free. He hadn’t just disrespected a superior. No, Javert had necessitated an otherwise upstanding, moral citizen to live in hiding for twenty years. He had robbed a town of its benevolent mayor. He had been wrong. He intended to deprive the world of a man who, in nearly thirty years, had done nothing but good.

There was not much else for him to do. He knew that regardless of the physical trauma he could put his body through tonight, he was not likely to overcome the guilt he felt about Valjean, nor the feeling that he was still neglecting his duty by letting the man go free. Compounding all of this was his anger, though could he really blame Valjean for Javert’s own sins?

Valjean had not forced him to go to that convict’s cell that first night, nor had he forced him after the Champmathieu incident.

Perhaps it was Javert who was the sinner, then.

Javert set his hat on the parapet and made to step up on it before the sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced around him wondering who would be on the streets at this hour on a day such as this.

He should not have been surprised that, once again, the plague known as Jean Valjean was standing only several feet from Javert.

Javert aborted the movement to stand atop the parapet and turned toward Valjean, a look of stern annoyance on his face.

“Well? What is it you want now?” Javert demanded.

“Were you going to jump?”

Javert sighed. “That is hardly your concern.”

“It is my concern,” Valjean replied, taking a step toward Javert, “what good reason should you have to do such a thing?”

“What good reason? Do I need one? Do you care?” Javert glared at him, almost challenging him to even attempt an answer. When he didn’t receive one, he continued, “I need not explain myself to you. Leave me be.”

“I cannot do nothing while a man takes his own life,” Valjean said simply.

Javert gazed around defeatedly, before sighing and setting his eyes back on Valjean. “I’ve decided not to arrest you,” he admitted, “so long as I never see you again. But if you continue to hound me, if you insist on showing me the God-forsaken mercy you show all of the miserable wretches on this earth, so help me God, I will ensure you spend the rest of your days back in the galleys. Now go.”

Valjean stared; Javet was glowering at him, and after a moment Valjean sighed and dropped his gaze. “I did not spare you from those students to have you throw your life away,” he muttered, more to the ground than to Javert.

“No, that decision was made thirty years ago,” Javert accused.

Valjean gave him an odd look. “Thirty years ago?”

Javert turned away from him, resting his arms on the parapet and gazing down. “Will you not see reason? I do not know what I have done to deserve your relentless torment. You have been a plague to me since you entered my life, back at Toulon. You have ruined me. You ruined me in Toulon, you ruined me in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and you’ve ruined me tonight. I no longer have any desire to see you return to prison because I no longer have any desire to see you anywhere; please, Valjean, just leave.” He had not turned back toward Valjean.

His gaze cast downward, Javert did not see as Valjean approached him. When he placed a firm hand on Javert’s forearm, Javert jumped, instinct causing him to strike Valjean across the face.

Javert staggered back a few steps, wary of Valjean, but Valjean simply stayed where he stood. He raised his arms as if to protect himself, and, with a pang, was reminded of the prostitute back in Montreuil.

Valjean rubbed where Javert had struck him. “I am not going to hurt you, Javert,” he said calmly.

“If you don’t leave,” Javert began.

“Is that what you want?” Valjean asked, ignoring Javert. “Me to hurt you? Is that what this is about? You were like this back in Montreuil after you-”

“How dare you remind me of that.”

“Javert,” Valjean urged, his voice one a man might use to calm a wild tiger, “have you no mercy, even for yourself?”

“I deserve none,” he retorted.

“I am not going to simply leave you here to your death.”

“Then I will arrest you,” Javert told him factually.

Valjean paused, before looking back up at Javert. “Very well.”

Javert took a few imposing steps toward Valjean, who only gazed at him with a look of stern resignation.

When Javert was only inches away, Valjean broke his gaze to say, “I only wish you give me the opportunity to say goodbye to my daughter.”

“Be silent!” Javert hissed. He continued walking toward Valjean until Valjean was forced to take a few steps backward; Javert angled his body so the steps took Valjean closer to the edge of the bridge, and only stopped when Valjean’s back was flush against the parapet. Their faces were nearly touching.

Valjean craned his neck around, looking at the river behind him, then back at Javert. He grasped the parapet firmly, and Javert was greeted with a look of abject fear on Valjean’s face he had not seen since Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Javert fisted his hands in Valjean’s shirt. “I swear to you, if you don’t--”

He was cut off by Valjean violently pushing Javert off of him; Javert tripped backward and fell to the ground. Before he could stand back up, Valjean pinned him to the ground, his legs pinning Javert’s legs, and his arms pinning Javert’s wrists.

“Still more animal than man,” Javert spat.

“Why do you want this?” Valjean asked, remarkably calmly for their given position. “It seems as if you want me to fight you, you want to be hurt. You know I’m the stronger man. Why?”

“I deserve it,” Javert repeated.

“You do not.”

“I need it.”

Valjean sighed, and Javert wondered how long Valjean would be able to keep him pinned to the ground. “Need?”

Javert took advantage of Valjean’s momentary surprise to push him off him, but did not try to fight. He sat up, rubbing his wrists where Valjean had held them.

“You were under my watch one of the times you escaped, shortly after I arrived at Toulon. I wanted to be punished for letting you escape, but I wasn’t,” Javert admitted. “It troubled me. I found another way.”

“Brawling?”

Javert gave him a wry smile. “In a way,” he answered.

“Then, in Montreuil--”

“I knew if you didn’t dismiss me, I would do something dangerous. I was angry.”

“Did you?” Valjean murmured.

“Yes.”

“And that is why you say I have ruined you?”

Javert sighed. “Must you do this?”

“You have a very bleak view of the world,” Valjean told him. Javert bristled at the pity in his voice. “You believe you to be in my debt, then?”

Javert said nothing.

“If it will set things right in your mind, I should like you to repay me for that debt tonight,” Valjean said slowly, and Javert was reminded of Madeleine.

Javert waited, but it became apparent Valjean was waiting for some form of agreement. “Well?” Javert snapped.

“I cannot leave you here like this tonight, Javert. I cannot allow a man -- Javert.” Valjean sighed deeply. “Stay with me, tonight, so I may at least rest assured you have not done something unwise.” The words seemed choked, as if merely speaking them caused Valjean immense pain.

Javert made to agree, out of instinct more than anything -- Valjean still very much sounded like Madeleine when he spoke to Javert in this way -- but Valjean continued.

“I am inviting you to my home, in which I live with my daughter and our housekeeper,” Valjean began. “You will not breathe a word of this to either of them, you will not breathe a word of our past or mine, and you will speak as little as possible to Cosette without being impolite or causing her distress.”

Javert had never seen Valjean look so dangerous.

“If you think I’m just going to go willingly to your--”

“You are in my debt,” Valjean reminded him.

Javert clenched his fists. Despite knowing full well that Valjean didn’t believe his own words and was only manipulating Javert to get him away from the Seine, if only for tonight, he found himself incapable of further argument.

“Very well,” Javert sighed. He stood up, brushing off his trousers where they had been dirtied by the bridge.

Valjean gave him a pained smile.

Javert cursed himself for agreeing to go with him, but could not find the will to further argue. The way Valjean had treated him was so humanizing Javert was almost struck by it. Valjean really did seem to think Javert hadn’t deserved what he’d put himself through, and that he, of all people, would be able to help him overcome it.

He found himself too exhausted to deny, even to himself, that he, too, hoped Valjean could fix him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and then they lived post-seineily ever after)


End file.
